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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27082540">My Cup Runneth Over</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilsdoes/pseuds/dilsdoes'>dilsdoes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(finger guns) for the gremlins, (kiss) for the girls (wink) for the gays, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Comfort/Angst, Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Other, Passive-aggression, my involvement in this fandom is a blasphemy speedrun and i personally think that counts as therapy., there's kinks here but only if you squint for them, why yes the title is lifted directly from the shepherds prayer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-09 02:08:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,397</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27082540</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilsdoes/pseuds/dilsdoes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He screwed his eyes shut, and took a deep breath. Those were only moments of weakness, however, and he was an Angel of the Lord. He was not to be served.</p>
<p>“I… I could do with a cup of tea, I think,” he said to no one, and he stumbled off to make one.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>123</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>My Cup Runneth Over</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>yes this is in fact a second fic about aziraphale having difficulty accepting love, yes i do in fact have hang ups, no i will not stop. you clicked on this fic, you know where you stand.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Aziraphale knew that the stars in the sky would be his if he simply looked at them the right way. He knew that all the water in all the seas would be fit into a shot-glass, that every grain of sand would be examined to make that shot-glass, and that only the heat of Hell would be allowed to form the shape of said shot-glass, if he said his throat felt a bit dry. He knew Crowley loved him.  But he knew very well, it wasn’t his place to willingly accept it. Every gift he was brought was met with a demure refusal, some insistence, and a polite, begrudging acceptance, in that order. Regardless of how obvious it was that he would be thrilled to receive a first edition copy of the Divine Comedy, regardless of how his mouth may water at the thought of a bowl of pho, regardless of any desire he may have, he did not truly deserve it, and that was the simple truth of it. He would refuse it all. It was a victimless act, provided he was not considered a victim, and he was fine with it. He and Crowley toasted to a newly safe Earth, and he took a bite of foie gras, and caught his adoring eyes, and really. It was fine.</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>“Pardon?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I said ’s fine.” Crowley was shrugging on his coat, and Aziraphale was confused. “Don’t have to join me if you don’t want to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I- Well-” He searched for a response to stammer out, and came up empty handed. “I-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Globe’s always there, anyhow,” he sniffed. “Some other time, maybe.” He turned on his heel, and waved. “Ciao.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And the door swung closed, leaving Aziraphale very, very perplexed. Crowley had offered him something, and he said no, and he accepted that answer, and left. That couldn’t be right. Crowley had offered him something, like always. Aziraphale said no, like always. Crowley took that at face value and left. Aziraphale sat down, befuddled. Had he done something wrong? Had he made him cross? Did he think Aziraphale was cross with </span>
  <em>
    <span>him?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He shook his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s probably nothing,” he muttered to the empty shop. “He’s tired, perhaps. Next time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then came next time. He’d stopped by the bookshop, and stationed himself at the till, adding a very appreciated threatening aura, when he suggested they get lunch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My treat,” He said, as always.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I don’t know.” Aziraphale began, as always. “I couldn’t possibly-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright then,” and he returned to his cell phone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I- Well I mean-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry?” Crowley peered over his glasses nonchalantly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“N-Nothing.” He went back to reshelving books. “Nothing at all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And so it went. Crowley would offer, Aziraphale would refuse, and the dance they’d practiced and performed for centuries would end abruptly, leaving a silence between them. He supposed he could simply say yes, or even ask him outright. He supposed he always had those options, in theory, although Upstairs wouldn’t have been keen. Then it occurred to him that it was no longer an issue. And he realised: </span>
  <em>
    <span>it was no longer an issue.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He froze, the book he was in the middle of reshelving clenched in his hand. He no longer had to worry about how he would explain excursions if they came up. He wasn’t on their payroll, so to speak. His stomach dropped. He had no reason not to say yes. He felt ice cold. He had no reason not to </span>
  <em>
    <span>ask</span>
  </em>
  <span> even. He felt dizzy, all of a sudden. He tried to puzzle out why that revelation left him with so much dread. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It couldn’t possibly have to do with him </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanting </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be doted on by Crowley, because he didn’t. It was unbecoming of a being of pure love such as himself. Loving him, now that was fine. Loving him was like breathing, like blinking, like seeing. It took no effort to love him, but to believe he could be loved is like believing he deserved love, and to believe he deserved is to be selfish, and being selfish is undeserving of love, and so, it’s not his place to be loved. In a moment of weakness, perhaps, he may sit, indulging in some gift from Crowley, and indulging in Crowley's own indulgence at his own pleasure, and in being loved, and in enjoying being loved, and in believing, for a moment, that it’s his </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that this is for </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>deserves</span>
  </em>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He screwed his eyes shut, and took a deep breath. Those were only moments of weakness, however, and he was an Angel of the Lord. He was not to be served.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I… I could do with a cup of tea, I think,” he said to no one, and he stumbled off to make one.</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>Crowley had stopped inviting him out. Aziraphale wasn’t certain when the last offer was, but he knew for sure that it wasn’t recent. He hadn’t stopped </span>
  <em>
    <span>going </span>
  </em>
  <span>out mind you—no, he announced, regularly and often directly, when he had dinner plans, or opera tickets, or any other engagements occurring imminently. He simply stopped offering a seat at the table, so to speak, and Aziraphale had taken notice. Although, he wasn’t sure when to ask about it. Or how to ask about it. Or even </span>
  <em>
    <span>if</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Think I’ll have dinner at the Ritz tonight,” Crowley said, with an insulting amount of nonchalance. Aziraphale glanced up, bewildered and questioning. “Sorry.” He muttered, dismissive. “Just thinking aloud.”</span>
</p>
<p><span>Aziraphale was a being of love. He possessed an extraordinary and infinite patience, which promptly depleted at a rate previously thought impossible. The Ritz. Without him?</span> <span>He snapped his book shut.</span></p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I beg your pardon?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm?” He spared a glance. “Did you want to join?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did I want to— Dear boy, what do you take me for? You know the answer! Enough of all this equivocation.” He folded his arms. “If I’ve upset you, or irritated you, or something of the sort, then all this waffling will get us nowhere.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tired of equivocation?” He smirked cattily. “You’re one to talk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And just </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span> is that supposed to mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It </span>
  <em>
    <span>meansss,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Crowley hissed, crossing the room in long strides. “That you. Could ssay. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yess</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly, and without warning, the air made an exit, and Aziraphale was glued to the spot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wh-” He gulped. “Whatever do you-?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t.” He shook his head. “Don’t play dumb, Angel. ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly, don’t want to impose, you didn’t have to do all that,’ Every. Blessed. Time. We needed to keep up appearances, I thought- needed to put on a show and all, yeah? But now, there’s no one to watch it! So who’s it for? Hm?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stared at the ground and wrung his hands. He didn’t know what to say.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aziraphale,” he began, and he sounded so hurt, and Aziraphale tried not to cry. “It’s- Look, it’s fine if you never actually like me treating you, but-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do.” He said softly, and Crowley barked out a dry laugh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t- please, don’t spare my feelings, Angel-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not. I like it.” He paused. “Very much, in fact. Too much, maybe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Too much? What do you mean, ‘Too much’?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m…” He sighed, and finally found the courage to meet his eyes. “I’m not used to being cared for, Crowley. It’s unfamiliar to me, I’m afraid.” He shrank a bit. “I- Well. I’m an angel, you know. A servant. I love everything, and care for everything, and expect nothing in return. It’s in the job description, I suppose. ‘Unconditional’ and all that. And, well- I’m very good at it, I must say- but it means that I’m always loved under the condition that I love first and fiercest.” He breathed sharply. “Being loved though… well it’s peculiar. You don’t ask anything of me. You love </span>
  <em>
    <span>me.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Unconditionally. And- well. I suppose I’m still searching for the terms.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley stepped forward. “Aziraphale-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I- I can try to be more-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aziraphale, it’s-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, really- if you want I’ll-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Aziraphale.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> He was in his arms, suddenly. “All I want,” he said. “Is to love you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He blinked. “That’s all?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s all.” Aziraphale gripped Crowley tight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We could order in tonight if you like?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He melted into his hold. “I think… I think I’d like that. Please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And they stood there, for a moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it was fine. In fact, it was good.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>if you liked this, drop a kudos. if you want to tell me how much you liked it, leave a comment, i read them all. if you want to tell other people how much you liked it, share it or add it to rec lists. you can find me on twitter @devildykedils, i'm love u, bye.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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